


what a delicate heart, what a hard head

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, and without the whole corporate rivalry thing, but replace all that with nosy friends and overinvested sibling relationships, i honestly don't know how to describe this other than 'you've got mail' but without the email
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-22 16:00:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6085965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy does not approve of his sister’s boyfriend. He does not approve of his little sister HAVING a boyfriend. And, from what he’s heard, he definitely does <i>not</i> approve of said boyfriend’s roommate. </p><p>But then he meets a pretty blonde artist, and suddenly he’s got his hands full trying to work out how to get her to go on a date with him <i>and</i> convince his sister not to set him up with her boyfriend’s roommate who, in all honesty, sounds like she has major attitude problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue; saturday

**Author's Note:**

> i put this fic on hold for a few days while i was drowning in the angsty aftermath that was my entire being post 3x05, but i am BACK and FEELIN' GOOD. (hence the modern au. cos that's my go-to feel-good writing frame of mind.)
> 
> i would've posted this as a oneshot (more like a super LONGshot) but i think it's just better organised as a multichap, so the timeline is easier to understand. even though i feel unnecessarily stressed at the very idea of multichaps.
> 
> also, be forewarned that i am most certainly (and most regretfully) not an ancient history student/expert. lowered expectations with regard to accuracy in mentioned references is strongly advised.
> 
> enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> (title from ‘Just Wait’ by Donnie Trumpet & the Social Experiment)

 

 

When Octavia entered her senior year of high school, she’d decided that she was officially old enough for a boyfriend, much to Bellamy’s chagrin.

 

(His choice of word. Octavia prefers ‘self-righteous, overprotective outrage’.)

 

He’d watched, agonised, as his baby sister went on date after date with a dark-haired boy on the soccer team. He’d never been as ill-rested in his life as he’d been during those first couple of months, staying up hours later than usual to reassure himself she was home safe and rushing to feign having fallen asleep watching television on the couch so she wouldn’t find out and scold him for entertaining doubts on her ability to get home in one piece, boyfriend or no.

 

When they’d broken up six months later, Bellamy had hovered about anxiously outside his sister’s door for hours, making every excuse he could to enter the room — bringing her water, bringing her food, bringing her ice cream (which was by far the best received), collecting her clothes for laundry. When he cautiously padded in the room to “check the bulb in her desk lamp”, he’d heard a sharp huff before Octavia suddenly emerged from the lump of blankets and pillows. She’d reached out to close one small hand around his wrist, yanking him onto the bed. She’d then put her head on his shoulder, her arms around his torso, and proceeded to sniffle quietly for the next forty minutes. Bellamy had wrapped an arm around his little sister and remained still — as still as he could be while wishing a violent death on all testosterone-flooded teenage boys with penchants for breaking teenage hearts, and his heart ached so much it made his entire body go numb. (Or it might have been the long stretch of time spent trying not to move for fear of jostling Octavia.)

 

Now, nearly five years on, he’s more or less become acquainted with the idea of Octavia dating, albeit very begrudgingly. He’s learned to be less prickly about it, and to simply not ask the questions he doesn’t want to know the answer to. She’s more at ease with throwing him a bone now and then, making sure to let him know just enough to preserve his peace of mind.

 

But the one thing that’s safely dammed up all his anxieties is the calming knowledge that as much as Octavia’s dated around, she hasn’t yet met a second person she felt serious enough about to call her boyfriend. Or girlfriend. He’s pretty sure she’s dated a couple ladies, but never got serious about either one.

 

Which is why he feels sufficiently justified and entitled to his less-than-overjoyed reaction when Octavia tells him she and Lincoln are “together and, Bellamy — it’s serious”.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

He knows it’s his fault for being surprised. Octavia’s been mentioning Lincoln more over the last few weeks. A _lot_ more, he ruefully acknowledges. (Silently, of course. It’s in everybody’s best interest that Octavia does not hear his mental admission. And by everybody, he means himself.)

 

Then again, to be fair, he’s never really focused much on Lincoln as a subject. There’s always been something or other distracting from the guy himself, like that time Octavia forgot to let Bellamy know she’d be home late because she was heading to a club with Lincoln, leading him to stage his first couch stakeout in four years until she’d finally returned, close to four in the morning. Or when she’d mentioned a Pompeii exhibit coming to town that Lincoln was interested in seeing, and he was instantly engrossed with looking up every detail of the exhibit he could get his Internet hands on, quizzing his exasperated sister endlessly on Herculaneum artifacts and paintings until she’d eventually pushed herself off the couch, levelled him with a flat look and told him to “get your ass outta the house before you actually start photosynthesising”.

 

Even now, when he’s just being introduced to the idea of Lincoln becoming Octavia’s official _boyfriend_ , the thing occupying centre stage in his thoughts is — annoyingly enough — the case of said boyfriend’s roommate.

 

The first time Octavia spends the night at Lincoln’s, she comes home the next day well past lunchtime and tells Bellamy not to bother when he automatically gets up to fix her something to eat. Bellamy frowns confusedly — his sister always eats like a fucking starved wolf after a ‘sleepover’. She shrugs, and says that she’d woken up while Lincoln was out for his morning run, so Lincoln’s roommate had whipped them up a couple large omelettes. Said roommate had even brought out a couple of mini yoghurt cups for them “for dessert”, and they’d spent another hour on the living room couch, Netflix in the background while the roommate had regaled her with as many Lincoln stories as she could remember while Lincoln had a shower and made up breakfast for himself.

 

For some reason, Bellamy’s skin prickles discomfortingly at the mention of this person cohabiting an apartment with his sister’s boyfriend. What kind of girl doesn’t question—doesn’t even _blink_ at the presence of virtual strangers in her _home_? What kind of girl just _feeds_ whoever happens to show up on a Saturday morning in her living space, with apparently zero regard for prior acquaintanceship? What kind of person instantly attains Netflix-and-legitimately-chill status with his typically barbed, guarded sister within mere minutes of meeting?

 

What kind of person has _dessert_ after _breakfast_?!

 

His blood heats with inexplicable indignation, and he crosses his arms over his chest as he watches Octavia disappear into her room. He’s still not too sure about Lincoln, given that he hasn’t actually heard anything to legitimately incriminate him in Bellamy’s eyes. (Yet.)

 

But he’s pretty sure he’s not gonna like Lincoln’s roommate.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The next week, Bellamy decides he needs to put the whole Octavia-has-a-serious-boyfriend thing out of his head, and heads down to the museum to check out the Pompeii exhibit that finally arrived in town the day before.

 

He skips over the option of asking Octavia if she wants to come with, since she’s probably not going to be back anytime soon from staying over at Lincoln’s again. He debates Miller for about two seconds before immediately vetoing himself, remembering the last time Miller was involuntarily brought to an institution of art appreciation. He considers Raven and Gina, but decides he doesn’t feel like playing third wheel to their endless tradeoff of snark and merciless jibes — mostly because his engrossment in the exhibit will probably make him the undeserving target of their witticisms.

 

He arrives at the museum to find it blessedly clear of people, save for two or three middle-aged couples milling about quietly, with a few older, bespectacled gentlemen dotted about. Three of them actually have trilby hats on. Well, Bellamy reasons wryly, that’s his company now. Trilby hat-wearing pensioners. Saturday turn up. Or is it turn down?

He shakes his head and nods politely at the two girls working the front desk, striding briskly past to begin his initial sweep of the exhibit. After a brief ten-minute walkthrough, he glances over his phone to review the short notes he’d made, and starts again at the entrance hall.

 

This time, he goes through the exhibit with unrestrained, uninhibited relish, allowing himself the time to drink in every single speck of history. He hovers over displays, scanning placards and looking up more information on his phone. He spends maybe a little too much time bending over a jewellery display encased in glass, and starts suddenly when an elderly lady clears her throat behind him. He immediately steps to the side in surprise, glancing at her bemusedly raised brow as she shuffles over for her turn at a closer look at the beautiful gold pieces, her husband smiling apologetically at him from a couple feet away.

 

He finally finishes his second circuit nearly two hours later, but remains unsatisfied. He double-checks the notes he’s made, and immediately heads for the front desk. As he rounds the doorway of the last wing of the exhibit, he suddenly notices that the two girls previously at the desk are now just one girl — a _blonde_. He’s reasonably certain that the girls had had dark hair when he’d first arrived. He gives himself a mental shake as he approaches the desk and clears his throat to get the girl’s attention. _Really not the point._

 

“Hi, I’ve just been through the Pompeii exhibit,” he begins, resisting the urge to frown when the pretty blonde glances up at him from her chair, looking vaguely perplexed. “And I couldn’t help but notice that it’s missing the letters of Pliny the Younger.”

 

She continues to regard him with that same nonplussed expression. He frowns then, still waiting for her to react to the evidently problematic situation he’s just very helpfully pointed out.

 

“Are they just… not on display yet?” he presses, raising a dark brow. “The letters? Or are they not going to be on display, like, ever? They’re pretty important.”

 

She opens her mouth and closes it again almost immediately, sparing a quick glance at the computer screen she had been focused on before he’d approached her. _She must be new or something,_ he realises. _She doesn’t even have a nametag._

 

She looks back at him, and he’s slightly stunned when he suddenly notices that her eyes are blue. Like, _really_ blue.

 

“I’m sorry, I don’t have access to that information at the moment,” she says, and he struggles to catch up as he takes in the sound of her voice and _okay, fuck, that’s husky._ “But from what I understand, the letters of Pliny the Younger are still on display at the British Museum at the moment. As they’ve been for the last eighteen years.”

 

He blinks, completely thrown off by the note of sarcasm that laces her last remark. “Right. England, yeah.” He has to physically stop himself from slapping a palm over his face to hide what is clearly a neon sign flashing _‘I AM A DISGRACE OF A HISTORY PROFESSOR’_ all over his visage.

 

He ends up just sort of _hanging_ there, unsure of what to do or say next.

 

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” she asks patiently as she rises from her chair, the wheels squeaking a little as she pushes away from it.

 

“I’m a history professor,” he blurts out. With absolutely no rhyme and certainly zero reason, as her bewildered expression informs him.

 

“Oh—kay?”

 

He runs a clammy hand through his hair, desperately trying to will himself to calm down and fix the mess he’s clearly devolving into on the spot.

 

“I wanted—I didn’t mean to— _Jesus_ ,” he breathes, and inhales sharply when he sees the corners of her mouth quirk up. He exhales heavily, and lets a quick, sheepish burst of laughter loose. “I meant that, well, I’d read up on the exhibit quite a bit in the last few weeks and one of the forums had mentioned that the letters might be making an appearance, so I was really looking forward to it.” He finally dares to meet her gaze properly again, ruefully returning her questioning smile as he thinks of how many cool points he’s definitely not racking up right now. “And now I’ve just admitted that I’ve recently spent hours and hours trawling through forums on ancient history museum exhibits. I want to tell you my life is usually much more interesting than this, but honestly, it’s, er, not.”

 

The girl presses her lips together as if trying to contain her evidently mounting amusement, and he laughs yet again, shaking his head at the absurdity of the situation. Well. The absurdity of his own self, to be precise.

 

“Well if anyone’s to blame, it’s probably those darned Pliny conspirators,” the blonde says, eyes alight with silent laughter. She leans towards him, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Not to worry. At least you’re not wearing a trilby hat.”

 

He doesn’t get the chance to respond as enthusiastically as he would like. A dark-haired girl in a navy blazer suddenly appears, hobbling through the small, hinged panel that leads behind the desk.

 

“Sorry, _sorry_ , I banged the stanchion right into my shin by accident and somehow—oh my God. Hi, um, good morn— I mean, afternoon, sir, how can—”

 

“It’s cool, Maya,” the blonde reassures the other girl as she pulls a small cross-body purse off the desk and over her head. “He’s just sharing his concerns about Pliny the Younger. Are you okay?”

 

“Yeah, it’s fine, I’m fine now,” the girl who _actually_ worked at the museum — _Maya_ — answered, waving a dismissive hand as she lowers herself into her chair, the other clutching a small bundle of wet cloth. “Took me a minute to track down some ice, but I’ll be alright. Thanks for covering the desk.” As she rambles on, he realises how glaringly _obvious_ it is that the pretty blonde doesn’t work here — she’s wearing a cardigan instead of a blazer, the flint gray cotton loosely draped over her shoulders instead of the formal navy blue Maya’s clad in.

 

Maya glances at Bellamy once more, frowning as she presses the makeshift icepack against her shin. “Are you sure there isn’t anything else I can do for you, sir?”

 

“Oh, he’s no ordinary museum-goer,” the blonde informs her, straight-faced despite the distinct tone of teasing in her low voice. “He’s a _history professor_.”

 

“Seriously? That’s awesome!” Maya says, no traces of sardonicism to be found in her bright smile as she looks back at him. “Maybe Dr. Professor could take you on a tour of the exhibit instead!” She winces slightly as she directs her attention back to the blonde, who’s already pushed through the hinged panels to come up beside him. “I really want to, but I also really want to sit for a bit. Or you could wait for Keenan to get back and give you the tour? She’s probably gonna be another half hour or so, though,” Maya says, grimacing apologetically as she fumbles with the icepack.

 

“Oh,” the blonde says, glancing at him. He suddenly realises his mouth is still hanging open from the revelation that a) she doesn’t work here, and b) he is a very big dork for not catching on earlier that _she doesn’t work here_ , and immediately pulls his jaw shut. “Well, I don’t think anyone’s idea of a good time would be going through an entire exhibit they’ve already seen just so they can explain it to some random stranger, so—”

  
“I could give you a tour,” Bellamy says, trying not to think of how he’s practically just interrupted her with sheer eagerness of the _extremely_ nerdy variety. “I mean, I was just gonna come back another day to see it again, so I could just, you know. See it again now.”

 

“Great,” she says, and inexplicable relief crashes over him at her lack of hesitation. “Between you and me? Not a fan of Keenan.” She glances at Maya, who’s smiling wide even as she’s shaking her head in feigned exasperation. “Neither is Maya, though she’s too nice to admit it.”

 

“Go,” Maya orders with a laugh, making a shooing motion with her free hand. “I’ll call you later. Thanks again, Dr. Professor!” she calls to Bellamy, who grins wryly at the blonde as they leave the entrance hall.

 

“It’s actually Bellamy,” he tells her as they enter the first wing of the exhibit. “Not that I’m embarrassed by people addressing me as Dr. Professor really loudly. Or anything.”

 

She glances at him with a playful smile — more of a smirk, really, he thinks as they approach a row of mosaic tiles. “Sure. So, what’s the deal with these tiles, Dr. Professor Bellamy?”

 

He spends the next hour and a half taking her through the exhibit. It’s been a while since he’s talked this much outside of a lecture hall, but he thoroughly enjoys every minute with this girl with the lightning, razor wit. It turns out her powers of observation are just as sharp, and she gives just as good as she gets, asking question after question. He knows that she’s just testing his knowledge for both their amusement half the time, but he doesn’t mind at all when he sees how genuinely she listens to and engages with his answers.

 

It also helps that she’s just about as merciless as him when it comes to people-watching (or people-judging, as Octavia tends to scoff affectionately), making endless sly asides regarding trilby hats and Crocs and everything else he’s certainly never thought to say out loud to a person he’s just meeting for the first time. They even end up fighting a little on the true accuracy of artistic depictions of the city and the eruption of Mount Vesuvius, and he finds that they share yet another thing in common — they both hate giving way.

 

It’s the most fun he’s had in a very, very long time.

 

It definitely doesn’t hurt that she’s also _gorgeous_ , all piercing blue eyes and soft waves of yellow hair falling gently over her shoulders. His gaze is constantly drawn to the little mole above her upper lip, marvelling at how such a tiny, minuscule detail can somehow make her at least five times more appealing than any other person he’s ever found attractive.

 

He’s almost sorrowful when they finally get to the last room of the exhibit, dawdling needlessly over the remaining displays and digging up as many nuggets of information as he can remember as he frantically scours his brain for a way to drag out this time with her as long as he can.

 

She must catch on by the time he starts going a little _too_ in-depth about the Ara Pacis ceremony, because her smile suddenly stretches a little wider and her head cocks to the side as she surveys him, the fluorescent lights glinting off her sharp blue eyes. He abruptly wraps up his sentence and pauses for breath, glancing at her hesitantly.

 

They stand in silence for a split second before both suddenly dissolving in laughter at the same time.

 

“Hey, listen,” he says when they’ve both calmed down a little, the release in his nerves brought about by the laughter allowing him to meet her gaze directly, “if you’re not doing anything right now, do you want to grab lunch?” He pauses, taking in the way her brows lift in genuine surprise. “With me?”

 

“Oh. Well. I would, but—”

 

He tries to hide it, but he’s sure she notices his face fall slightly.

 

“—Seriously _,_ I would _love_ to,” she says, stepping closer to him. “But I—well, I’m supposed to meet a couple friends soon.” She glances at the clock above the exit doorway. “Ten minutes ago, actually. Can I borrow your phone?”

 

He retrieves his phone from his pocket immediately, too taken aback by the unexpected request to ask why. “Oh. Er, sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you or anything—”

 

She waves one hand as the other is occupied with his phone. “Don’t worry about it. They’re pretty much always late anyway. You’ve actually done me a solid by keeping me company.” She returns his phone with a grin. “Plus now I have all the Pompeii knowledge I will ever need. If I ever end up in a Roman History-themed trivia night, I officially owe you one.”

 

He laughs, shaking his head as he runs a hand through his hair. “If we ever run into each other at a Roman History-themed trivia night, I might just let you be on the winning team.” He lets one corner of his lips pull up into a smirk. “Mine, obviously.”

 

Her grin widens at that, and she dips her head towards the ground as if to hide it, like she’s suddenly self-conscious about their flirting. (Also, he’s successfully _flirting_. With a pretty blonde he’s _actually_ _interested in_. Take _that_ , O.) “I’ll hold you to that. See you around, Dr. Professor Bellamy,” she says, throwing him one last smile.

 

He watches her flutter her fingers at him over her shoulder in goodbye, caught in his little bubble of happiness. She finally disappears from the room, and he pivots on his heel giddily. He’s about to pump his fist in celebration when he suddenly freezes on the spot, realising one very important detail.

 

He’s forgotten to ask for her number.

 

Before he can start the long, arduous process of silently berating himself for the rest of the day and probably the rest of the week and, while he’s at it, the rest of the year, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out immediately.

 

 

 

**thanks for letting me borrow**

**your phone! made it much**

**easier to get your number.**

Fuck. He really, _really_ wants to see this girl again.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Clarke fires off a quick _where are you, i’m almost there_ text and rounds the street corner, squinting behind her sunglasses as her destination comes into view. The familiar sign of the diner glimmers under the light of the noon sun, and she readjusts her sunglasses with her free hand, smiling to herself as she pictures the pancakes awaiting her with bubbling anticipation. Her phone vibrates in her palm, and she glances at the text alert — _inside, usual table_.

 

She pushes through the clear doors and heads for a booth in the corner, sliding into the bench with a sigh.

 

“I am _starving_ ,” she announces, whipping off her sunglasses with one hand and waving down a waitress with another. “Hope you guys haven’t _ruined_ your appetites for proper food.”

 

“Quite the opposite, in fact,” her friend answers, casting a sly smirk at the handsome, well-built man beside her as he pretends that he’s not smiling. “Lincoln and I have definitely spent the last couple hours working up an appetite.”

 

Clarke rolls her eyes, grabbing the water glass closest to her. “Jeez, Octavia, can’t we ever sit through just one meal without you hitting on your boyfriend,” she retorts, not even bothering to hide her smile.

 

“At least we weren’t the ones arriving late this time,” Lincoln counters with a grin, and they put the exchange on hold as the waitress appears to take their order.

 

Once coffee is poured and their orders and menus are collected and the waitress has sailed away, Octavia turns back to Clarke, waggling her eyebrows. “So what held you up at the museum? Thought you said it was gonna be a quick drop-in?”

 

“Stanchion problems,” Clarke tells her, waving a dismissive hand as the other reaches for the sugar. “Maya asked me to cover the desk while she went to deal with it. Keenan was already out on a Starbucks run, so I helped her out for a bit.”

 

“How many people did you have to direct to the bathroom this time?” Lincoln asked, one brow raised in amusement.

 

“None, surprisingly,” Clarke answers, ignoring the flush rising up her neck and hoping her offhand tone distracts the couple opposite her from it too. “Anyway, you know that date Jasper told us he finally managed to ask Maya out on? You’re never gonna guess where he took her.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Bellamy collapses onto his couch, suddenly much more exhausted than he’d expected to feel for six o’clock on a Saturday evening.

 

He puts on a random _Master of None_ episode he vaguely remembers having already seen a few weeks ago, simply because it’s the first thing that pops up on Netflix and he _really_ doesn’t have the energy for the mental process of entertainment selection. He clicks his phone display on again for what has to be the hundredth time today, and tries not to be disappointed when he doesn’t see any unread texts waiting for him. The pretty blonde must have been busy for the rest of the day, considering her fade into radio silence ten minutes into their text exchanges. Which is good, he supposes with a sigh. At least she hadn’t been lying to get away from him. He tosses his phone onto the opposite end of the couch, and lets himself drift into a sort of zoned-out, half-conscious state in front of the television.

 

The fact that he still doesn’t know her name nags at him yet again, and he groans inwardly at the reminder of his negligence. He’s got her saved as “Princess” right now — a reference to a joke they’d shared earlier. He’d been explaining how Augustus had become _princeps_ — “first citizen” — and had gone on to detail his numerous military and civil achievements. She’d listened attentively, a frown pulling at her lovely features the entire time. Four minutes into his spiel, she’d suddenly burst out laughing, the force of it bending her over, one hand slapping down on her knee and the other reaching out to grasp at his sleeve. He’d waited, caught in the middle of confused, slightly dizzied awe at the sight of her laughing. She’d finally straightened after a few seconds, and told him with a wide grin and sparkling eyes that she’d heard him say Augustus became a _princess_. It sort of became a running joke for the rest of the tour, both of them bringing it up and slipping it into conversation whenever they could, setting each other and themselves off on numerous chortling fits.

 

He hears the apartment door open fifteen minutes into the episode, and the muffled sounds of shoes being toed off.

 

“What the _hell_ , Bell,” his sister says, padding into the living room. “It’s Saturday night. What are you doing home on a Saturday night?”

 

“What are _you_ doing home on a Saturday night?” he immediately counters. It’s weak, even for him.

 

She rolls her eyes and sits on the arm of the couch, slinging her bag off her shoulder. “Came back for a shower and a change of clothes before meeting Harper and Monroe at the bar. Your turn, and it better be good.”

 

“I’ve been out for _hours_ ,” he protests, not tearing his gaze away from the television screen. It’s big, it’s soothing and it’s not judging him, unlike the petite brunette two feet away. “Since, like, _nine_.”

 

Octavia scoffs loudly, folding her arms across her middle. “My utmost condolences. Seriously, when’s the last time you even slept in?”

 

“I _just_ got back from Raven and Gina’s place, O,” he groans. “As in, just heard twelve variations of this speech over the last few hours.”

 

“And you’d be getting number thirteen right now if I didn’t have to leave, like, five minutes ago,” Octavia says, pulling her phone out of her phone for a quick glance at a text alert. “Anyway, that Pompeii exhibit is officially in town, and Lincoln wants to check it out tomorrow. You should come with.”

 

“Already seen it,” he answers, grinning cheerily at her. “Oh my God, O, it was _amazing_ , there were these insane carvings of—”

 

“Yeah, sounds great,” she says, waving a dismissive hand while the other clicks her phone display off. “Come see it again, then.”

 

His brows furrow together slightly. “The last time I told you I wanted to go see an exhibit twice, you asked me why I continually persist in upholding my, and I quote, ‘never-ending quest for unlocking maximum nerd potential’.”

 

Octavia shrugs, pushing herself off her perch. “Okay, come meet us for lunch, then. We’ll go see the exhibit after.”

 

The crease in his forehead deepens. “O, why are you—”

 

His sister cuts him off with a loud huff, planting her hands on her hips. “Come _on_ , Bellamy. You have to meet Lincoln sooner or later.”

 

“Fine,” he says after a moment, eyeing her aggressive stance. “Later, then.”

 

She clicks her tongue in annoyance, shifting her weight irritably. ”I can’t believe you. Lincoln’s roommate was right!”

 

He glances at her with an annoyed frown. “What?”

 

She rolls her eyes impatiently. “Lincoln’s roommate. She says you’re in some kind of weird denial, and that you’d probably make up some kind of bullshit excuses to try to avoid meeting Lincoln as long as you could, just so you don’t have to face up to the fact that _I have a boyfriend_.”

 

“Go shower,” he says, sharply waving the remote at her. “You’re already late. Say hi to Harper and Monroe for me.”

 

He doesn’t have to look at her to know she’s narrowing unnervingly clear green eyes at him. He hears her huff once again, before picking up her bag and leaving the room.

 

If he thought he wouldn’t like Lincoln’s roommate before, he’s just about certain of it now. The only person qualified to explain Bellamy Blake to his sister is _Bellamy Blake_. What the fuck does this stranger know about him?!

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOOOHHH WHAT A MYSTERY HUR HUR HUR
> 
> you've made it to the end of chapter 1! kudos/comments are always, ALWAYS appreciated!


	2. thursday; friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually meant to post this yesterday, but i completely forgot as i was completely occupied with worrying over some other thing. my apologies!

 

 

Bellamy doesn’t even know her name, but what he knows is this: he really, _really_ likes texting with the blonde princess.

 

It’s only been five days, but fuck if his mood doesn’t instantly lift at the feel of his phone buzzing, or the sight of a message alert from “Princess” popping up on the screen. He’s never enjoyed lengthy text exchanges as much as he does with her. She’s every bit as hilarious, smart and thoughtful over the phone as he remembers her to be in person, and he constantly has to remind himself not to smile openly at his phone, especially in public or when Octavia’s around. She’s especially fond of sending him history memes and tweets from parody accounts of famous historical figures, followed by one-word invitations to “discuss”.

 

He almost gives himself away on Wednesday night at the bar, when Gina catches him smiling maybe a little _too_ dreamily at his phone and immediately asks him if he’s looking at porn. He scrambles to his own defense, but it’s too late — Raven and Miller don’t let him hear the end of his apparent porn addiction for the rest of the night.

 

On Thursday afternoon, he makes a quick Starbucks run for a pick-me-up in between classes. He rarely leaves campus during breaks, preferring to stay in his lecture hall or office grading papers or planning his next lesson, but the one coffee he’d had in the morning has all but dissolved into his beer-laced bloodstream by lunchtime.

 

He quickly joins the queue — it’s just two men in office attire in front of him, taking turns to place their order between snippets of polite conversation — and returns his attention to his phone, feverishly tapping out a response to the blonde princess. They’ve been discussing Augustus over the last couple of days. She’s particularly intrigued by the story of his very controversial third wife, Livia Drusilla.

 

He’s just pressed send when a familiar voice sounds behind him. “Are you stalking me?”

 

He turns in surprise, and well fuck maybe Octavia’s right and he _is_ becoming an old man because _holy fucking shit_ she’s at _least_ four times more beautiful than he remembers, standing in front of him in a dark jacket that’s the colour of plum perfection, complete with black jeans that hug every curve and line of her lower half with snug closeness.

 

“Hey,” he manages after half a second, blinking rapidly to remind himself it’s not polite to stare.

 

She grins at him as she takes a couple of steps forward to join him in the queue. “I promise I didn’t mean that thing about Livia being a power-hungry bitch. I did mean that thing about how she sounds badass, though.”

 

He laughs then, all the tension seeping out of his shoulders as he realises she’s happy to see him too. Maybe not quite as happy as he is to see her, but he’ll gladly take whatever he can get with her. “Well, I definitely meant that thing about the double standards, though. No one would be calling her a power-hungry anything if she’d been a man.”

 

“Stellar point,” she says, smiling wide as she nods. “Plus, even if she did kill her husband, she _was_ pretty considerate about it. There’re worse ways to go than poison.”

 

“Yeah,” he agrees wryly, bringing one hand up to tug at the knot of the skinny tie around his neck. “You _could_ have them exiled and leave them to die alone after twenty years on some godforsaken island.”

 

“Okay, okay,” she laughs, the sound light and sunny. “Maybe still a bitch then. But hey,” she shrugs easily, the corners of her eyes still crinkled in amusement, “bitches get stuff _done_.”

 

The barista calls them to the counter, and they place their orders together — cinnamon latte for her, and caffè mocha for him, because he really needs the extra shot of chocolate today.

 

“Names?” the barista asks, black marker pen poised over the cup.

 

“Augustus and Livia,” she answers immediately, with a truly remarkable straight face. They get a distinctly strange look in response, and it’s just about all he can do to press his lips together to hold in his laughter as the barista shrugs and writes on the cup, directing them to the side to wait for their drinks.

 

“So,” she begins when they’re done exchanging conspiratorial giggles and whispers, “is the hot professor dress code an actual requirement? Or did you just want me to be impressed when I ran into you today?”

 

He flushes, ducking his head in a sudden fit of embarrassment. Shit, _he’s_ supposed to be the one overwhelming her with charming flattery and unexpected compliments. “Well,” he says, clearing his throat, “I definitely wanted you to be impressed when you ran into me. I was just planning on it being… well, planned.”

 

Her brow lifts, but there’s a hint of playfulness to her questioning smile. “Planned?”

 

He laughs at her teasing insistence, her determination to make him spell it out for her. “I wanted to ask—“

 

“Cinnamon latte for Livia!” They automatically start towards the collection counter. “Caffè mocha for—” the barista does a double take at the name scribbled on the takeaway cup as they approach the counter, “—er, Augustus!” He receives an almost pitying look from the well-meaning barista and shakes his head at the blonde princess’s undisguised snigger.

 

“Cute,” he says, the upward curve of his lips betraying his tone of faux exasperation. “Next time, you can be Augustus. We’ll see how many looks of commiseration you get then.”

 

She laughs blithely as they make their way towards the doors. “In that scenario, I’m pretty sure everyone would be far too distracted trying to connect you with the name ‘Livia’.” They step out of the Starbucks and turn to face each other, each grinning wide. “I’ve really gotta run,” she says, and he’s torn between not wanting to say goodbye just yet and the genuine note of regret in her voice. “But hey, run into you sometime soon?”

 

“Soon,” he says, smiling at the blonde princess as she flashes him one in return before turning away and disappearing into the light throng of pedestrians.

 

He’s halfway back to campus, lips still stretched in the remains of a smile when he suddenly realises that he still hasn’t gotten her name.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“We’ve been _over_ this, O,” he groans.

 

It’s Friday evening, and he’s cooked them a light dinner so he’ll be able to head to the gym in an hour or two, and his sister can leave room for drinks and greasy snack foods when she goes to meet her friends — Lincoln included.

 

“You’re _twenty-nine_ , Bell,” Octavia continues as if he hasn’t already said no to joining tonight’s jolly group hang-out. Twice. “You can’t just spend _all_ your free time lazing about on couches with Netflix or dusty old books or your laptop. Or Miller.”

 

“I _like_ couches,” he insists defensively. “They’re warm, and comfortable. And they don’t criticise your choice of leisure activities.”

 

She rolls her eyes, stabbing at her grilled chicken. “They’re also social life executioners. When’s the last time you even had a date?”

 

His mind flashes back to six days ago at the museum, and two days ago at the Starbucks off campus. “I date,” he says vaguely, not meeting his sister’s skeptical gaze.

 

“Please,” she scoffs, spearing a hunk of broccoli with her fork and waving it at him. “You haven’t dated anyone since you and Gina ended it. That was _over two years ago_ , Bell!”

 

He huffs, taking a gulp of water. “Look, I’m sorry I’ve been too busy _working_ , I have _responsibilities_ to uphold—“

 

“Also bullshit,” Octavia immediately says, and his grip tightens on his glass. “You said you’d take a year to focus on getting used to class schedules and teaching and whatever else. It’s been nearly two.”

 

“I can’t believe you’re accusing me of date procrastination,” he grumbles, picking up his fork again.

 

“I’m accusing you of general social laziness,” she retorts. “Look, if you don’t want to bother with the effort anymore, at least let me set you up with a couple people.”

 

“No,” he answers before she’s even finished with her sentence.

 

“I know a couple _really_ great girls, Bell,” she cajoles doggedly. “Mel in HR, she’s almost your type. Pretty, tallish, long dark hair. Way too nice for you, but that’s good — she won’t mind punching below her weight.”

 

“ _I_ would mind,” he says stubbornly.

 

“Fine — Roma, then,” Octavia decides. “She’s _definitely_ your type, more hot than cute, taller than Mel. Not quite as nice, which is probably better for y—”

 

“For when we hooked up that one time after Gina and I broke up?” Bellamy finishes dryly.

 

Octavia grits her teeth in annoyance, her free hand curling into a fist on the table. “Jesus fucking Christ, I knew there was a reason she was giving me the stink-eye every day for two months.”

 

“Look, O,” he says calmly, “I appreciate the concern — really, I do. But I would honestly rather die by asphyxiation than have my little sister set me up.”

 

She groans, shoving the last of her carrots about on her plate. “Do you _really_ have to be so difficult about it? Clarke says if you start dating again, it might help get you over your weird personal shit about me dating Linc—”

 

“Yeah, no, who’s Clarke?” he interrupts, frowning.

 

Octavia shoots a waspish glare his way. “Clarke. Lincoln’s roommate? I’ve mentioned her, like, twenty ti—” She cuts herself off mid-sentence, eyes widening in sudden revelation. “Oh my God. _Clarke_.”

 

“I get it, her name is Clarke,” he says testily. He’s admittedly distracted with varying combinations of annoyance and indignation whenever Lincoln’s roommate comes up, but he’s _absolutely_ sure Octavia’s never mentioned her name before. (Well. Maybe like ninety-two percent sure. The annoyance-indignation cocktail tends to hit hard.)

 

“No, you idiot,” Octavia huffs exasperatedly. “I should set you up with _Clarke_!”

 

He drops his fork with a loud clang. “ _No_.”

 

“Why not! She’s single too!” Octavia leans forward, clearly latching onto the idea with enthusiasm. “She’s also gorgeous, smart, funny, _really_ fucking good at reading people, and _definitely_ cooler than you.” She pauses. “Though that last one’s not that hard to achieve.”

 

“Great,” he bites out, abruptly shoving back his chair to stand. “You can set her up with herself.”

 

“Plus she fucking _sparkles_ with wit. She can be just as judgmental as you, _easy_. Well, without all the extra cantankerous old man features. You’d _love_ her, Bell!” Octavia frowns as he grabs their plates and stalks over to the sink. “Or hate her, come to think of it. Either way, there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there!”

 

“Octavia,” he says firmly, enunciating each syllable as clearly as he can as he turns to face his sister. “I do not, nor will I ever _want_ to go anywhere with Lincoln’s roommate. No matter _how_ smart, funny, witty or…” He frowns.

 

“Judgmental,” Octavia supplies from her chair.

 

“ _Judgmental_ , she is,” he finishes, folding his arms with an air of finality.

 

“I also mentioned gorgeous, did you hear me mention gorgeous?” his sister asks, blinking at him innocuously.

 

“No matter how cute, or hot, or _gorgeous_ she is, either!” he announces loudly, turning on his heel to ignore his sister’s façade of innocence melting into narrowed, pissed-off determination. “Also, what the fuck kind of name is _Clarke_.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

 

Bellamy jerks in surprise as a soft flick lands on his shoulder, looking up as the bartender flips her dishtowel back over her shoulder.

 

“I said, what’s so funny?” she says, one brow arching in amusement as he struggles to hide the tinge of guilt he’s sure is somewhere on his face. The dim lighting would probably be enough in most situations, but Gina is scarily good at reading him — maybe even better than Octavia.

 

“Nothing,” he answers, sneaking another quick glance at his phone to make sure the display’s turned off. The last thing he needs is his extremely perceptive ex-girlfriend catching sight of a full page of text exchanges with “Princess”. (Which he wouldn’t need to worry about if all his friends hadn’t long ago made sure to let him know that they liked her better than him. Disloyal assholes.)

 

Gina’s skeptical gaze remains firmly on him even as her hands get busy with retrieving a beer bottle and an opener. “Were you watching porn again?”

 

He splutters, eyes wide in shock. “Wha—”

 

Miller suddenly appears on the stool next to his, whipping off his beanie. “Who’s watching porn again?”

 

“No one, _no one_ was _watching porn_ ,” he reiterates sharply, throwing Gina a pointed glare.

 

“Bellamy wasn’t watching porn on his phone,” Gina informs Miller, setting a coaster and a beer bottle in front of him.

 

“Jesus fuck,” Bellamy groans when his best friend turns to raise both brows at him. “I _wasn’t_!”

 

“Wasn’t what?” Raven asks, suddenly appearing beside Miller. “Watching porn on his phone,” he answers, taking a swig of beer.

 

“Ew, Blake, again?” the mechanic immediately asks, nose wrinkling in disgust. “Get a _girlfriend_.”

 

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Octavia announces, reappearing at his other side. Of course. Of _course_ she returns from the bathroom _just_ in time to hear that.

 

Bellamy drops his head back with a longsuffering groan. “I knew it. I knew I should’ve just gone to the gym.”

 

“You take that back right now,” Miller immediately rebuts, jabbing his beer in Bellamy’s direction. “It is a goddamn Friday night and we are going to have a goddamn amazing time doing _nothing_.”

 

“I’ll drink to that,” Raven declares, raising her own bottle.

 

Gina snorts. “You’ll drink to anything.”

 

“As long as I’m still here,” Octavia says with a quick glance at her phone; Lincoln will be by soon to pick her up to go meet their friends. “Can we all just agree right here and now that my brother is a colossal moron for not letting me set him up with my boyfriend’s roommate?”

 

“What?” Miller and Gina ask, as Raven instantly says “yes”.

 

Octavia wastes no time diving straight into the pitch, and the other three automatically lean in to listen. His traitorous sister even tells them all about Lincoln’s roommate’s completely unsound and unjustified speculations on Bellamy’s “denial” issues. Bellamy directs all his focus towards breathing deeply through his nostrils.

 

“What the _fuck_?” Raven says when his sister’s done. The telltale glint of self-satisfaction is already noticeable in Octavia’s green eyes as she folds her arms with a distinctly triumphant air. “Is this chick for real?”

 

“Shit, I think _I’m_ interested,” Miller remarks, leaning back from the bar.

 

“I’m _definitely_ interested,” Gina muses aloud, one hand on her hip.

 

“Ow, what the—Raven!” Bellamy starts, one hand pressed to his recently punched shoulder as the brunette settles back into her stool. “The hell is wrong with you!”

 

“What’s wrong with _me_? What’s wrong with _you_!” she retorts indignantly. “The girl sounds perfect! Plus she’s clearly already got you figured out, so she’ll know exactly what she’s getting into.”

 

“Nobody’s getting into anything,” he informs them, rotating his shoulder in small circles. “I’m not going out with her.”

 

“And why the fuck not?” Raven demands, one brow raised.

 

He grinds his teeth, ignoring the smug smirk on his sister’s face. He decides it’s probably better not to let on how far under his skin her boyfriend’s mystery roommate has already managed to get before he’s even seen her face. “Not that it’s any of your _business_ , but for starters, her name is _Clarke_.”

 

All three of his friends immediately groan, loud and melodramatic.

 

“Lame,” Miller instantly says. Raven pronounces it “weak as _shit_ ” as Gina gives a condolatory shake of her head.

 

“Can I just add — that’s literally the only excuse he’s come up with,” Octavia interjects in an infuriatingly superior tone.

 

He drains the last of his beer, now quickly approaching the limits of his patience. “I don’t need to fulfill any excuse _criteria_ for not wanting to _date_ someone, O.”

 

“Well, you can at least meet her!” Octavia persists. “Come on, Bell. You would like her! She’s in _publishing._ You _love_ books! They’re basically the only real girlfriends you’ve had since, like, college.” She pauses, glancing at Gina. “No offense.”

 

“Absolutely none taken,” Gina assures her with an easy smile.

 

He spends another two minutes stewing in his seat as his friends and sister continue to discuss him as if he’s not even there. He doesn’t even bother hiding his sigh of relief when Octavia’s phone buzzes blessedly loudly, cuing her departure.

 

Raven and Miller down their drinks, grab fresh bottles and head for the pool table in the corner. He lingers at the bar with Gina as she cleans up their condensation spills and sodden coasters.

 

“So, this Clarke girl,” she starts in a tone he knows is deliberately levelled to sound casual. He groans.

 

“Jesus, not you too.”

 

She rolls her eyes, reaching for another beer bottle. “I’m not giving you the third degree. I’m just asking if there’s maybe some other reason you’re not exactly thrilled at the idea of meeting Clarke.”

 

He shrugs shortly, avoiding her gaze. “I told you guys. It’s a weird name.” He really, _really_ wishes the bar lighting was dimmer than it already is.

 

“Uh huh.” Gina’s wearing that smile. The one that somehow combines sympathy and pity into one succinct _oh honey, why bother_ while somehow just managing to stay on the right side of patronising. “So it has absolutely nothing to do with how she apparently understands you better than anyone ever has after just a few weeks of interacting with the one person in the world most important to you?”

 

His jaw clenches. “No.”

 

She sets the freshly opened bottle in front of him, still wearing that infuriatingly knowing smile. “Okay.”

 

He spends the rest of the night deliberately focused on texting with the blonde princess, relishing the taste of spiteful satisfaction when Miller and Raven repeatedly gripe about “rude ass people who don’t pay attention when we’re kicking their ass in pool”.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's the end of chapter two! thank you for reading, hope you liked it! two more chapters to go =)
> 
> extra hugs if you leave kudos/comments!


	3. wednesday; friday II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's delay brought to you by stresses of life + fickle writer probs!
> 
> special shout out to [this person](http://johnnywalkergnu.tumblr.com), who probably doesn't know how much their lovely message meant to me. 
> 
> on with the show!

 

 

 

The next time he runs into the blonde princess, it’s really at least thirty percent incidental.

 

(He may or may not have spent close to twenty dollars on unnecessary Starbucks visits over the last two days.)

 

A better strategy would probably have been to just _ask_ her if she’d want to meet for coffee, but it’s a heck of a lot trickier than he thought, trying to casually work a date invitation into conversation when your texting partner is as fucking hilarious and entertaining and relentless with the running jokes as the princess is. And all that’s _before_ even factoring in her verily intimidating hyper-speed typing capabilities.

 

In fact, aside from what she looks like (beautiful, intense, perfect) and what kind of sarcasm she favours (quick, sharp, sometimes almost dry), he has virtually no other information about her.

 

Oh, and, she’s an artist. Though he’s not _entirely_ certain about that — it’s just some of the things she says and references she makes that leads him to feel pretty safe concluding she’s in art, in a professional capacity. It makes sense the more he thinks about it, and it does easily explain her evident familiarity with the museum and its employees.

 

By Wednesday, he’s in the Starbucks queue ten minutes after dismissing his morning class.

 

He glances around to check the door twice before realising that the constant swivelling is spooking out the skinny kid behind him in line. Forcing himself to face forward properly, his eyes start wandering restlessly among the tables, half of which are occupied with college kids wrapped up in sweatshirts and MacBooks, and one elderly gentleman in an armchair with what looks like a Tolstoy. He steps up to order when the lady in front of him shuffles away, struggling to stow her purse away in one of her three bags (seriously, what is the _issue_ some people seem to have with carrying just the one, _bigger_ bag around?!).

 

He moves to the side after the barista waves him away, but he doesn’t make it more than three steps when he freezes on the spot.

 

Blonde princess is just six feet away, in one of the armchairs by the window. Her feet are tucked under her on the seat. Rays of sunlight highlight streaks of her loose yellow waves as she focuses on the large sketchpad on her lap.

 

He snaps his stunned jaw shut after a second or two, and suppresses a smile as he silently moves to loom over her chair. “Excuse me, there’s no art allowed here.”

 

She starts in her chair, head whipping up as her legs uncurl from underneath her. A smile immediately stretches across her face when her eyes land on his face. “Shit, sorry, must have missed the sign. I’ll put it away.”

 

The corners of his lips quirk upward, noting how she doesn’t make a move to cover her work like most art students he knows usually do. “Wasn’t talking about the drawing.”

 

She flushes then, her head dipping downwards with a laugh, one hand coming up to brush the bangs out of her face. He’s extremely proud of himself for having the self-control not to pump his fist in front of her.

 

He retrieves his drink when they call him — he’s substituting with tea today because he’s finding out that six coffees within forty-eight hours is definitely more hindrance than help, especially when his job consists of spending hours with skeptical twenty-year-olds with the attention spans of goldfish. He comes back to occupy the armchair opposite hers, and spends five minutes fending off her teasing accusations of him turning into a hippie. The fact that he’s wearing his reading glasses today doesn’t help his case much, but it’s worth the burst of warmth he gets in his chest when she insists on trying them on, her blue irises blinking comically behind the black frames.

 

She shows him her sketches, and his heart damn near somersaults in his chest when she tells him how their day at the museum and the stories he’d told her about ancient Roman history and mythology had inspired her so much she’s spent almost every day since then drawing landscapes and artifacts and historical figures and mythological creatures and everything else she could think of Googling. She even shows him a sketch she’s made of Persephone, and a half-finished one of Hades, both perfectly beautiful and terrible and powerful. They get into a lengthy discussion on the differences and close-knit parallels between Roman and Greek mythology, and he can’t stop grinning whenever she says something that shows just how much she’s been researching and learning on her own based off their text exchanges.

 

He feels like he’s barely had time to catch his breath when he glances at his phone and realises he’s closer to being late for class than he’s ever been since he’s started teaching.

 

He stands reluctantly, she smiles at him from her armchair, and fuck fuck _fuck_ he _really_ wants to skip out _on his own class_.

 

“Are you gonna be here tomorrow?” he asks, the words tumbling out before he can think of a way to phrase them in a less creepy, less clingy way.

 

Her face falls slightly, and he misses her smile instantly. “Busy all tomorrow,” she tells him, wincing apologetically. “But I’ve got time on Friday. Well, depending on how long my meeting runs. My agent can be a little _too_ invested in my work.”

 

He really wants to ask her more, but he glances at his phone again and _shit_ , he’s cutting it about as close as it can get. “Friday’s good,” he quickly agrees with a grin. “I’ve really gotta—”

 

“Go,” she laughs, waving him away. “I’ll text you.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Can you pick up some extra booze for Saturday?” his sister demands the second he walks through the apartment door.

 

He lifts a brow, shrugging out of his bag and jacket. “What’s Saturday?”

 

She rolls her eyes impatiently. “Game night, at Lincoln’s place. I _texted_ you this morning! You’re supposed to keep it free!” She smirks then, hands on her hips. “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

 

“First of all, rude,” he says as he passes her to get to the fridge. “Second of all, I _might_ have plans.”

 

“You _do_ have plans,” Octavia tells him as he pulls out a beer and rummages on the counter for the bottle opener. “You’re coming to Lincoln and Clarke’s apartment to eat some fucking food, play some fucking games, and have a good fucking time socialising with actual people who actually exist outside of screens or paper.”

 

“I might have plans with _my_ friends,” he insists, after a good long gulp of cold beer.

 

“Raven, Miller and Gina all already said yes to game night.”

 

The kitchen goes silent as the Blakes stare at each other across the table.

 

“Okay,” he relents flatly, eyes stonily fixed on his sister’s. “You have some skill.”

 

“I have _mad_ skill,” she informs him, flipping her long braid over her shoulder. “I’m heading over a few hours earlier to help Lincoln with the food. Raven and Gina already offered to make dip. You and Miller are in charge of beer. _Don’t_ forget.” She pivots sharply and stalks out of the kitchen.

 

Bellamy presses the cool, damp glass of the beer bottle to his forehead, exhaling heavily through his nose. He can’t ever just have one perfect day of teaching and tea with the blonde princess. No, now he has to spend the rest of the night expending the mental effort required for him to think through every single possible excuse he could employ to get out of game night, play Octavia’s advocate to every single one and eventually resign himself to the inevitability of finally having to meet his sister’s boyfriend and, worse, his sister’s boyfriend’s roommate.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Bellamy really fucking hates Fridays.

 

One: It’s the only day of the week he has back-to-back classes to teach and consultations to conduct, eight-thirty all the way till five.

 

Two: The projector in his lecture hall is on the fritz, which means twenty minutes of precious class time is eaten up by the AV technician fiddling about on the machine and his computer. The sounds and flickering screen distracts his students so much that he basically gives up fifteen minutes before class is supposed to end and asks his students to tell him the most foolproof, failsafe excuse they’d ever come up with to get out of anything. By the time he dismisses the lecture, he’s safely concluded that he’s unfortunately missing the two things necessary for any excuse to work — a legitimate social life and more than one family member.

 

Three: The one hour he has for lunch in the middle of the day is also the hour into which the blonde princess’s meeting runs over. She texts him right before the first students start filing in for his twelve o’clock lecture, apologising again for having missed his lunch break. He knows it’s not her fault, but it still just really fucking sucks.

 

And finally, four: Consultations with freshmen. No elaboration necessary.

 

He gets home after what feels like a day spent starring in the world’s longest shitshow where he’d gotten top billing, and immediately groans when he comes into the living room to find his sister in the middle of the couch, blinking innocently at him as _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_ plays on the TV.

 

“Not today, Satan,” he mutters darkly, warding her off with a reproachful finger.

 

“Freak,” she says, but she moves over to make room for him. “Bad day?”

 

Head dropping onto the back of the couch, he immediately smothers himself with a cushion, groaning long and loud into the padding.

 

“Great,” Octavia answers. “Good thing tomorrow is gonna cheer you right up, then.”

 

He pulls the cushion off his face, swallowing as he turns to look at her. “Listen, O, maybe—”

 

“Nope,” she immediately says, holding one hand up to cut him off as her gaze remains firmly fixed on the television. “You’re coming, like it or not. You already said yes.”

 

“Technically, I didn’t _actually_ say yes,” he grumbles, and receives a sharp glare.

 

“ _Technically_ , it’s not murder unless there are witnesses,” she snaps as he slumps further down into the couch. “I knew it. I _knew_ you were gonna try and pull some bullshit excuse to get out of this! Clarke said you’d—”

 

“Jesus _Christ_ , O,” he bursts out, gesticulating sharply with his hands. “What the hell are you always listening to _Clarke_ for?! She doesn’t know me, she’s never even _met_ me!”

 

“And we could _fix_ that if you’d just man up and _come_ tomorrow like you said you would!” Octavia argues stubbornly. “You can’t put off meeting Lincoln and Clarke forever just because you—”

 

“Lincoln _and_ —” he shoves himself upright to stare at her accusatorily. “Holy shit, O. _Please_ tell me you’re not still trying to set me up with Clarke.”

 

Octavia folds her arms staunchly, meeting his gaze with unwavering defiance, but her fingers are clenched into fists. “I don’t have to answer that.”

 

He sighs, making it last as long as he possibly can. “Look, O — in the nicest, calmest way I can possibly say this to you, I’m _really_ not interested in being set up with Clarke, alright?”

 

“That’s not fair,” his sister objects, her brows furrowing together tightly. “You can’t judge a person before you’ve even gotten to know—”

 

“I’m seeing someone!” he blurts out. And instantly regrets it. And automatically cheers up at the mental picture of the blonde princess his exclamation conjures up. And immediately feels the balloon of regret in his head double in size when his sister uncrosses her arms and leans toward him.

 

Her sharp green eyes narrow unforgivingly at him. Not that he’s managing looking directly at her eyes properly — he just knows it. “Are you?” Her tone doesn’t make it sound like a question at all.

 

Fuck. He’s just got to keep going now, doesn’t he.

 

“Yes I am.”

 

Okay, there really shouldn’t have any legitimate reason for even the slightest twinge of fear towards a five-foot-four girl. _Especially_ not one he’d personally taught to ride a bike and tie her shoelaces.

 

Her critical gaze doesn’t let up, burning a hole into the side of his head as he pretends to watch Andy Samberg mess around onscreen. “Bring her, then.”

 

“Jesus, O,” he says, infusing his voice with a note of irritation in hopes of disguising the surge of nerves. “We literally _just_ started going out. I haven’t even told Miller and the others about her yet. Can we not do Meet the Entire Fucking Brady Bunch right this second?”

 

He throws his hands up with a huff and focuses on the television screen. Goddammit, it’s already almost at the end of the episode. He’ll just have to watch it again later. Does the blonde princess watch _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_? It feels like the kind of thing she’d be into. Fuck, please don’t let him have to answer any more questions about her.

 

Finally, Octavia sighs beside him.

 

“Fine. I won’t set you up with Clarke.” He doesn’t even have time for a breath of relief before she’s speaking again. “But you’re still coming tomorrow. And you’re meeting Lincoln. And Clarke, and all of our friends. And you’re going to make proper _effort_ at being _social_ — no ignoring anyone, no glaring at anyone, no leaving early. Got it?”

 

He grunts in acknowledgement. It’s the best deal he’s going to get without actually having to leave the country or be admitted to the ICU within the next twenty-four hours, and they both know it.

 

Octavia stands to leave before suddenly stopping in her tracks, turning back to face him. “What’s her name, anyway? The girl you’re dating?”

 

He crosses his arms deliberately, still slumped back against the couch. “I don’t have to answer that.”

 

He tries not to let his victorious smile show at the sound of his sister’s irritated huff until he hears her bedroom door slam. He then spends the next twenty minutes trying not to succumb to the depths of dejection when he realises that he couldn’t have answered her question even if he had wanted to.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“Clarke?”

 

Clarke jerks in her seat, whipping her head around to blink at a set of questioning eyes. “Huh?”

 

The crease between Lincoln’s brows deepens. “I said, are you sure you’re okay to pick dessert up tomorrow?”

 

Tomorrow. Right. Game night. Food. Fun. Friends.

 

“Yeah,” Clarke answers, shaking loose strands of blonde out of her face. “No, yeah, it’s fine. I’ll get it.”

 

“Good. If we let Jasper do it, I have a feeling we’re all going to wind up with diabetes before we even lay the table,” Lincoln says with a wry smile.

 

“Assuming he even makes it out of the bakery,” she quips, shifting on the armchair she’s sprawled out sideways on.

 

As her roommate laughs, she quickly brushes aside the guilt that inexplicably wells up every time Lincoln or anyone happens to catch her zoning out over the last couple of weeks. Her nerves never fail to twist into an uncomfortable ball in her chest, and she’s not even sure why. She hasn’t done anything wrong.

 

And yet, she’s spent the last two weeks seeing nothing but visions of messy dark curls and warm brown eyes. Her thoughts and daydreams are constantly soundtracked by a deep rumble of a voice going on about Achilles and Patroclus. She can’t even reach for her aviators now without being reminded of black-rimmed reading glasses (which she has certainly never before found sexy as fuck until now).

 

She’s not _guilty_. She’s just… distracted.

 

Two weeks ago, if anyone had told her a history professor would be the hottest thing she’d ever come across in her life, she probably — no, _definitely_ would have laughed at said person who _clearly_ did not know the first thing about her.

 

“… Also, are you sure you don’t want to come out for a drink tonight?” Lincoln’s voice filters back into her consciousness, and she blinks at him again.

 

“No, you guys enjoy date night,” she answers, waving a hand as the other reaches for the remote. “I’m totally beat. Gotta rest up if I’m planning to survive game night tomorrow.”

 

She feels Lincoln shift on the couch, can practically _hear_ the wheels turning in his head. “Ah.”

 

Her eyes slide to his, one brow lifting at the sudden restraint in his demeanour. “What.”

 

He smiles, lips stretching with placating calm. “Nothing.”

 

She groans then, head dropping back over the arm of the chair. “That’s _not_ a nothing look. Please tell me Octavia isn’t still gunning for her set-Clarke-up-with-big-brother campaign.”

 

Lincoln regards her wordlessly, face carefully schooled into perfect neutrality. It’s only years of familiarity that allows her to catch the humour dancing in his warm eyes.

 

“I swear to God, Linco—”

 

“It’s not _my_ idea,” he tells her, brows lifting in amusement.

 

“No, but it’s _your_ girlfriend,” she retorts, the corners of her mouth lifting despite her annoyance. She really does like Octavia — a lot. She knows Octavia likes her too, and she’s glad. Even so, the girl’s enthusiasm for pretty much _everything_ can be slightly much at times. “In all seriousness, though, could you _please_ just tell her thanks but no thanks? Or should I just file for a cease and desist right now?”

 

“Oh, but doesn’t he sound like such a fun guy,” Lincoln deadpans, one brow arched teasingly.

 

Clarke scoffs ungracefully — by now, a knee-jerk reaction to the mention of Octavia’s brother. “Oh yeah,” she says, folding her legs Indian style on the armchair. “Moody, overprotective, emotionally constipated. Dude sounds like a regular ball of sunshine.”

 

Lincoln laughs, glancing at an incoming text alert. “Alright, alright. I can’t make any promises except to _strongly_ suggest to Octavia to let it go.” He stands, pocketing his phone. “I have to admit, I’m not entirely hopped up at the prospect of meeting him either, but he’s still her brother. They’re very important to each other, and even if you’re not open to—”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” she waves the remote lazily at him, settling in to the opening credits of _Ghostbusters_. “I’ll be as pleasant and friendly as you’ve ever seen me.”

 

“Good enough,” Lincoln smiles affectionately. “Leave the hall light on for me.”

 

“Yeah, say hi to your girlfriend for me!” she calls as the sound of his footfalls grow fainter. She hears the door open and close again, and she breathes a sigh of unexpected relief.

 

For the millionth time in the last two weeks, her mind drifts back to Bellamy. She sighs ruefully to herself, thinking of how freaking _good_ he’d looked smirking down at her in those fucking glasses. It really shouldn’t be allowed for someone as smart and scholarly as him to have that _face_. Or voice. Or body, come to think of it — a flush rises in her neck at the memory of how the material of his button down shirt had strained over his broad shoulders as he’d leaned over in his seat to look at her sketchpad a couple days ago.

 

Their text exchanges have been no less entertaining, but certainly a lot less frequent today. Another surge of guilt rises in her gut at having had to cancel on him earlier. Anya’s an incredible agent, and every other illustrator in town would kill to work with her, but Clarke’s long ago learned that there’s no diverting her when her focus turns laser. She’d apologised to him, and he’d said it was okay. But, fuck — she’d really, _really_ wanted to see him.

 

Even now, every socialised cell in her body is screaming at her _not_ to text him again — you don’t _double text_ someone you’re even _halfway_ interested in! (And suffice it to say that she is definitely more than halfway interested.)

 

She exhales deeply before getting up to find herself company in the form of either alcohol or sugar; whichever she lays eyes on first. A minute later, she settles back into her chair with a large glass of wine. She takes a large, medicinal gulp, and tries to focus her uncooperative mind on some classic ghost busting antics instead of the way Dr. Professor Bellamy’s entire face lights up whenever she manages to make him laugh.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Bellamy wakes up the next morning and immediately opens up a new text message before he can think too much about it.

 

 

 

**Hey, not to creep you out or anything but**

**here’s the deal: I have a thing tonight, I**

**really don’t want to be at the thing**

**tonight but I have to be, do you want to**

**come with me to the thing tonight so I can**

**be indebted to you for the rest of my life?**

 

 

He spends the next hour making breakfast, glancing over the first batch of essays he needs to grade, groaning at the first paragraphs of half the essays and making second breakfast to further fortify himself for the academic hell awaiting him. He’s barely done grimacing his way through one particularly delightful piece exhilaratingly detailing how “Julius Caesar totally slayed the Optimates” when his phone buzzes on the table. He snatches it up, grateful for the reprieve.

 

 

 

**as much as i would absolutely love being**

**able to call in favours anytime i want from**

**a bona fide ancient history nerd (with no**

**questions asked, obvs), i must regretfully**

**decline as i, too, have got a thing tonight.**

 

 

 

He’d already told himself not to be too disappointed, but he finds himself swallowing hard anyway. What else can he possibly expect with having waited till the last minute to ask her? He starts to reply as vague and neutral of an _‘it’s okay’_ as he can muster up when the typing dots suddenly pop up on the screen.

 

 

 

**but if you somehow manage to survive your**

**thing, i’d be open to hearing about every**

**harrowing detail of your hour of suffering.**

**maybe over coffee tomorrow morning?**

 

 

Not to exaggerate or anything, but he’s reasonably confident that this is hands down the best text message anyone has ever received in the history of the world.

 

 

 

**Throw in pancakes and it’s a deal.**

 

 

 

**pancakes it is.**

 

**good luck with the thing.**

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE GETTIN' CLOSE NOW!
> 
> thank you for sticking with this little fic! hope it's been as much fun to read as it is to write =) don't you just love a world where bellamy and clarke's biggest problems AREN'T about war and death?
> 
> once again, kudos/comments mean the world to me! thank you so much if you've already left either or both =) every single one is always appreciated! 
> 
> fyi the last chapter is at least 85% done! expect it within the next few days =)


	4. game night; fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so a week counts as a few days, right? right??? RIGHT????????
> 
> anyway, here comes the end! enjoy =)

 

 

 

“Look at it this way,” Miller says as he shifts the bag full of beer to his other hand to jab at the doorbell button. “He’s your age, isn’t he? So whatever the case, he’s basically gotta be at least as mature as you!” His grin dissolves into a frown as he stares at the closed door. “That sounded way more comforting in my head.”

 

Bellamy would roll his eyes, but he honestly doesn’t feel he has the strength for even that. Thankfully, he’s saved from having to respond by the door flying open, courtesy of a beaming Octavia.

 

“Bell!” she exclaims breathlessly, throwing her arms around his neck. He returns the embrace automatically with his free hand, but he’s a little more than stunned. When’s the last time he can remember his little sister smiling like _that_?

 

She quickly releases him and pulls Miller in for a brief hug, all whilst chattering on about tortillas and beef and wine. “… but Lincoln says it’s almost done, just another ten minutes!” She steps back and glances down at their bags. “You remembered the beers! Come on, you can put ’em in the fridge.” She’s already halfway down the hall as she talks, disappearing around the corner with the end of her sentence.

 

They exchange pointed looks as they toe off their shoes.

 

“Is it weird if I say that I’m totally digging Stepford Wife Octavia so far?” Miller says, bracing one hand against the wall for balance.

 

Bellamy grunts, still slightly speechless at the _happiness_ radiating from his sister. If he hadn’t been sure what to think of Lincoln before, he’s fucking clueless now.

 

They follow Octavia along the hallway and into the apartment, entering the open kitchen space to the savoury aroma of something that automatically sets their salivary glands and empty stomachs off. Raven and Gina are already at the large island in the centre, both already armed with half-filled glasses of wine as they talk and laugh loudly with Octavia, who’s darting back and forth between them and the stove, where a large, mocha-skinned man stands over a large Dutch oven pot that is clearly the source of the insanely amazing smell.

 

Five disconcerting minutes later, he kind of regrets having ever even _thought_ the slightest of not-nice things about Lincoln.

 

Not only is Lincoln single-handedly responsible for the indescribably heavenly smell that greets them when they arrive (“Taco filling!”, as Octavia excitedly informs them), he’s also warm, sincere and genuine. He’s a little taller than Bellamy, his muscled physique clearly defined through the simple, form fitting forest green T-shirt he wears. Octavia introduces them, and he shakes Bellamy’s hand firmly, meeting his narrowed gaze with a welcoming smile. He’s clearly self-assured enough to meet Bellamy’s poorly disguised wariness head-on, but there’s a humility underlining his confidence that almost instantly wins Bellamy’s ungrudging respect, if not yet approval.

 

He’s pretty sure Octavia’s immediate physical presence is the only reason Miller isn’t already half in love.

 

What really makes it all the more difficult for Bellamy to dislike this handsome, chiselled Adonis — seriously, the guy was _made_ for Calvin Klein ad campaigns — is the way he seems to automatically gravitate towards his little sister, instantly melting under every little touch Octavia bestows on him and sending her soft glances and gentle smiles every five seconds, with or without her noticing.

 

It’s enough to make Bellamy feel like a grade-A ass for having ever assumed Lincoln was anything less than a national treasure, whether or not the man has ever had his hands on Octavia in any way that was even a hair’s breadth shy of innocent.

 

Further judgments on Lincoln are quickly put on hold when Lincoln and Octavia’s friends arrive, bearing numerous bags of nachos — a slight, Asian man with a kind smile and sparkling brown eyes named Monty, and a lanky, shaggy creature called Jasper, who appears to be the personification of a golden retriever. Introductions are quickly made, and much to everyone’s immense amusement, Jasper immediately takes a very eager shine to a very visibly unsettled Raven. Gina pretends not to notice whenever Raven waggles her eyebrows pointedly in a silent cry for help, opting to brightly chime in on Monty and Miller’s conversation instead.

 

Raven sighs in clear relief and quickly steps to the side when Octavia interrupts to ask Jasper where his girlfriend is.

 

“Picking up dessert with Clarke,” the boy answers, cheeks reddening, apparently at the mention of said girlfriend. “They had to drop by the museum first so she could open up storage for Clarke to move a new piece in.”

 

Bellamy’s ears prick up instantly.

 

“They should be here soon,” Monty offers from across the island, a quirk in his brow. “Clarke texted me twenty minutes ago to ask me to tell Jasper to stop texting her.” He casts a glance that’s both sympathetic and apologetic over at Bellamy and his friends. “He’s very enthusiastic about the possibility of profiteroles.”

 

Bellamy leans forward, resting a hand on the island top as he focuses all his attention on the aforementioned sweets enthusiast. “Hey, Jasper — your girlfriend works at the museum?

 

“She sure does!” Jasper answers, turning his happy grin on Bellamy. “Two years now!” He falters, a hint of nervousness seeping into his wide smile. “I mean, she’s been working there two years. At the museum, I mean. Not that we’ve been together two years, actually it’s more like two wee—”

 

“Does she know Maya?” he interrupts, trying to clamp down on the note of terseness in his voice. He’s a fucking idiot for not thinking of it sooner — _Maya knows blonde princess’s name._

 

Jasper’s jaw falls open, his large puppy dog eyes now positively shining. “Hey, you know my girlfriend? How do you know Maya!”

 

“Okay guys, Lincoln’s officially done with the tacos and all your lives are about to be changed,” Octavia announces, grinning proudly as she lays a large tray of toasted tortillas in the centre of the island, beside two bowls of dip courtesy of Raven and Gina. She runs an affectionate hand over the solid incline of her boyfriend’s shoulder as he brings the large Dutch oven pot to rest beside the tortilla tray amidst loud exclamations of appreciation and excitement from the rest of the room.

 

Monty and Gina don’t hesitate to offer help with handing out plates and utensils, while Jasper, Miller and Raven jostle each other for a position at the island closest to the large pot of thick, aromatic beef filling. Bellamy tries for about five seconds to regain Jasper’s attention, but quickly realises the boy is completely lost in his pursuit of tacos. Midway through Octavia yelling that “every one of you is gonna be using a goddamn _coaster_ , so help me God”, sounds of the apartment door opening and slamming shut echo from the hallway, mingling with distinctly feminine laughter.

 

“Clarke’s here,” Monty calls over to Octavia and Lincoln.

 

“ _Dessert’s_ here!” Jasper breathes excitedly, immediately giving up his spot at the island — much to Miller and Raven’s excessive glee — to bound towards the kitchen threshold.

 

“Sorry guys,” a voice calls, its owner rounding the corner as she brushes dark hair out of a familiar face — Maya. “We couldn’t decide betwe—oof!” She’s instantly engulfed in a full-body Jasper embrace, which she returns with wholehearted enthusiasm.

 

“She wanted to get the brownies,” a second voice calls from close behind Maya. A voice that sounds kind of familiar, Bellamy thinks with a frown. “I told her Jasper would go apeshit if he didn’t get his profiteroles.”

 

His jaw drops.

 

Blonde princess is standing right there on the kitchen threshold, holding a large white bakery box and wearing an impossibly sunny grin that he finds mind-numbingly ironic, considering his entire world has _basically frozen over_. He stares — _gapes_ at her as Octavia gives her a quick hug and relieves her of the box, his jaw having gone far too slack to recover even when her eyes quickly travel through the crowded room and land on him.

 

“Are you stalking me?” she asks bemusedly, raising a brow as she pulls the strap of a familiar cross-body purse over her head.

 

 

  

* * *

 

 

 

 

It turns out Lincoln’s roommate Clarke is every bit as smart, funny, witty and judgmental as Octavia had made her out to be. She is also most definitely cute, hot, _and_ gorgeous.

 

This would probably be less of a problem if he weren’t still trying to wrap his temporarily malfunctioning brain around the fact that _she’s also his blonde princess_.

 

“… well, his first name’s Nathan but we’ve been calling him Miller so long I doubt he even remembers that himself,” Octavia is telling the princess— _Clarke_ , with a bright laugh. “And this is —“

 

“Bellamy,” Clarke says, flashing him a small smile. “Hey.”

 

He almost misses his sister’s double take, too busy trying to process through the fog that’s drifting about in the space his brain used to occupy.

 

“Oh,” Octavia says, brows lifted in surprise. “Have you guys… already met?”

 

He detects an unmistakable note of restraint in her tone, and some small part of him is immensely proud of her.

 

“… once or twice,” Clarke is telling his sister, her sharp blue eyes still on his face. He inhales sharply, silently urging his brain to catch up with his ears.

 

“Bell never mentioned that,” Octavia says, turning to frown at him. “In fact, he—”

 

“Guys, seriously,” Raven loudly interrupts from behind them. “If you don’t start taco-ing it up _right now_ , Jordan is going to demolish the entire pot.”

 

Jasper protests in an exaggeratedly wounded tone as Lincoln gently takes control of the serving ladle, Clarke turns away to accept Maya’s offer of a drink, and Bellamy breathes a sigh that does nothing to relieve the rising surge of nerves in his gut.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Taco, meet nacho. I call it a naco,” Jasper announces to a politely horrified Gina, proudly holding up his mutated Mexican concoction.

 

“Isn’t that from _Kim Possible_?” Miller asks Monty in a very conspicuous whisper, as Raven does a terrible job of disguising her snigger with a cough.

 

By the time Bellamy regains full control of his psychomotor skills, everyone is just about ready for second servings. He tries to focus on the conversation Octavia and Maya are having, which should be a lot less difficult considering he’s been standing in between them for the last fifteen minutes.

 

Frankly, it’s exceedingly difficult to do _anything_ more complicated than breathe in and out normally with the princess—with _Clarke_ directly across the island from him, laughing animatedly with Raven and Monty over some joke probably made at Jasper’s expense. Even Miller’s frequent attempts to draw him into conversation with him and Lincoln fail to hold his attention — he’s not quite functional enough for anything above single-syllable responses yet.

 

It’s another thirty or so minutes of tacos and brownies and profiteroles (which Jasper really, really, _really_ likes) before Octavia announces it’s time to move to the living room, where the Wii is already set up and ready to go. Bellamy dutifully sits through her loudly insisting that Raven and Miller have to be on the same team “or someone will actually die because it’s no fun and all _Game of Thrones_ with these two”. Some yelling is involved in deciding which team Lincoln is on, mostly from Jasper, Raven and Miller. Gina sighs in evident relief when Maya generously offers to be on their team, even if only to keep Jasper in check.

 

Bellamy only half-listens to the ruckus, his attention already captured by blonde waves and laughing blue eyes.

 

Everyone else in the room is entirely too invested when Lincoln and Octavia play each other, and Raven receives several raised brows for yelling _“COME ON PEOPLE LET’S NOT PLAY TIPTOE ROUND THE FUCKING TULIPS HERE”_ — though it’s probably because no one is quite clear on who her indignation is directed at. The couple even receives a standing ovation when Lincoln narrowly emerges victorious after seven heatedly close rounds. Gina’s elbow jabs encouragingly into Bellamy’s side when it’s his turn, and he plays a surprisingly short-lived game against Monty, who makes efficient work of showing him the dangers of underestimating one’s opponent, much to Raven’s guffawing delight.

 

One full hour of simulated cartoon tennis and no-holds-barred trash talk later, even Bellamy is unable to resist from laughing hard when Jasper accidentally clocks Miller in the face in a victory dance gone terribly wrong.

 

As Octavia and Raven step up to face off, he excuses himself to go to the bathroom. He’s a few steps away from returning to the living room when Clarke suddenly appears at the threshold, both hands full of empty beer bottles.

 

“Hey,” he says automatically, feeling the still damp skin of his palms immediately starting to clam up. Fuck, can she tell he’d washed his hands and then wiped them on his jeans? Goddammit, what a stupid habit. _Idiot._

 

“Hey,” she returns, smiling easily. “Just getting more drinks. You want one?”

 

“Yeah,” he says quickly, the skin of his neck flushing uncomfortably as he realises he still has two-thirds of a bottle waiting for him on the coffee table Lincoln had pushed to the side. “I mean, I’ll, er, help you.”

 

She regards him for a moment, one brow arching in amusement. “Okay, sure.”

 

He follows her into the kitchen, mind racing furiously to come up with a socially acceptable way to ask someone _um so hey, how did you not tell me you were my sister’s boyfriend’s roommate until now?_

 

“Are you surprised?”

 

He almost misses the question, and his head snaps up to look at the back of hers as she tosses the empty bottles in a separate bin Octavia had earlier announced was solely for recycling “so that means no dumping any other shit in there, _Jasper_ ”.

 

He quickly recollects himself, drawing himself up to stand straight. “That’s the first thing you’re gonna say to me?”

 

She glances at him questioningly as she pads over to the fridge. “Should I quote Homer first or something?”

 

He inhales sharply, trying to steady himself against the near irresistible urge to fall back into their rhythm of trading jokes and laughs. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

She pauses in front of the open fridge door, turning to look at him, a hint of bewilderment lacing her smile. “Tell you what?”

 

He feels like now would be an appropriate time to get irritated, or even a little bit frustrated, but his limbic system seems to be experiencing some kind of lag time. “That you’re… _Clarke_.”

 

She turns away from the fridge, hands full of bottles as clear blue eyes land on his. “You didn’t ask.”

 

It’s not an accusation, or even a defense.

 

It’s… _true_.

 

He gapes for a few moments, as she calmly places the bottles on the island.

 

“So,” he finally manages after his brain successfully reboots, “you knew I was Octavia’s brother the entire time?”

 

“Well,” she responds conversationally, levering a bottle opener over a particularly stubborn cap. “I didn’t _know_ right away. I mean, I couldn’t exactly conclude that Octavia’s brother Bell and Dr. Professor Bellamy were the same person with just names.” She cracks open the bottle and sets it on the island, meeting his stunned gaze. “To be honest, it was only when you said that thing about Augustus having had a sister that it even crossed my mind.”

 

He stares at her, caught between processing her words and the surge of happiness in his chest at the realisation that she’d genuinely been interested in him going on and on about ancient Roman politics. Even the people who pay him money to go on about it barely pay attention half the time.

 

“Anyway, Octavia never called you anything but ‘Bell’ all the time, so I wasn’t sure what to think,” she continues, flipping the top off the last bottle. “But I thought you might be— well, a week ago, we were having drinks, and Octavia mentioned that her brother was a college professor. So yeah, the possibility came up again. But to be _completely_ honest, I was still kind of busy trying to figure out—”

 

She stops abruptly, glancing at him hesitantly. He waits, too tongue-tied to do anything else.

 

She clears her throat, suddenly very interested in looking over the freshly opened bottles in front of her.

 

“Well,” she says slowly, her tone measured. “For the first couple of months, I may or may not have thought Octavia’s brother was named ‘Bill’.”

 

 _Fuck_.

 

Of all the things he’d been expecting tonight, coming to the realisation that he really, _really_ wants to go out with Lincoln’s roommate had definitely not been one of them.

 

He blinks suddenly, her expectant gaze alerting him to the fact that he hasn’t actually given a verbal response.

 

“I told O we’re dating.”

 

Fuck. _Fuck_.

 

Literally a _million_ fucking words in the English language, and _that’s_ what his mouth comes up with.

 

Now she’s the one blinking, her cheeks flushing pink. “What?”

 

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, swallowing uncomfortably. “It just sort of, um, came out. She’s been all over me the last two weeks trying to— er—“

 

“Set us up?” she offers, the corners of her mouth pulling up.

 

He laughs despite himself, nodding as he rakes a hand through his hair. He suddenly feels inexplicably light, having this conversation here and now with Clarke. It feels just like every conversation they’ve had before, but… _better_. “Octavia’s always been, well — _stubborn_.”

 

“Must run in the family,” Clarke teases with a grin. “Judging from her stories, at least.”

 

“Jesus fuck,” he groans, his exasperated tone betrayed by his wide smile. Shit, he _can’t stop smiling._ “Don’t trust everything she says. I like Lincoln!” He pauses. “Well. I don’t hate him.”

 

“Especially not after those tacos, I’ll bet,” she says cheerily. “Anyway, I’m guessing the thing you had to be at tonight isn’t as bad as you thought it was gonna be.”

 

“Worse,” he replies, his mouth stretching into a grin. “But I guess Jordan’s okay once you get used to the lack of an indoor voice.”

 

“Yeah, even Raven and Miller seem to be warming up to him after beating him twice each,” she says with a blithe nod, waves of yellow dancing about her face and shoulders. “Also, by now I’m pretty optimistic that you don’t quite hate me either.”

 

He splutters slightly. The very _idea_. “ _No_ , of co— Did O tell you that?!”

 

“She might be under the impression that you’re not exactly my biggest fan,” Clarke informs him, brushing rogue blonde strands out of blue eyes sparkling with mirth.

 

Oh, Christ. He’s definitely a fan.

 

“Well, princess,” he says, resting one hand on the island as he leans toward her. “Good thing I’ll have a chance to clear everything up over coffee tomorrow.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They spend the rest of the night egging Octavia and Raven on in their rapidly blossoming Wii boxing rivalry and provoking Jasper and Miller into repeated beer chugging competitions.

 

At the end of the night, they manage to escape direct questioning from the younger Blake when she passes out on the couch, exhausted from twelve straight rounds of boxing and five hours of alternating wine and beer. Bellamy and Miller hang back to help clean up while Lincoln puts Octavia to bed, and Clarke lets them out of the apartment when they’re done. She thanks them both with a hug and a smile, and Bellamy grins as he listens to his tipsy best friend word-vomit about _how cute and funny Monty is_  and _do you think he’s single_ all the way down the elevator.

 

They meet at their Starbucks the next morning, Bellamy already at their table with a cinnamon latte and a caffè mocha by the time Clarke gets there. He stands when he sees her, and kisses her the second she gets to the table because he’s too wired up to wait for hellos. She responds enthusiastically, smiling against his lips as her hands grab onto his shoulders to pull him closer.

 

She laughs when they sit back down to their cardboard takeaway cups — ‘Augustus’ is printed on his, and ‘Livia’ on hers.

 

They’re in a nearby diner twenty minutes later, deeply engrossed in a pancakes versus waffles debate. She crows unabashedly when he laughingly concedes to the ‘infinitely superior functionality’ of the waffle, and he wants to laugh again when he thinks of how losing to her doesn’t feel like losing at all.

 

They end up back at the museum two weeks later, Maya smiling in delighted surprise when they show up hand in hand.

 

(Octavia calls Bellamy five minutes later to yell at him, tell him to pass the phone to Clarke so she can yell at her, tell them both how fucking happy she is for them, and clarify that she’s _‘still fucking mad’_ at both of them and they had _‘better get some fucking grade-A shit for dessert to make up for it’_ come game night next week.)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND WE'RE DONE!
> 
> i really, truly hope you've enjoyed it at least a lil bit as much as i've enjoyed writing it, which was a heck of a lot! this is one of the few things i've written in which writer's block barely even looked my way at all. (also known as a goddamn miracle.)
> 
> thanks for sticking with this fic all the way through! double thanks if you've left me a kudos/comment/bookmark, ANYTHING that shows me you liked it and wanted to keep reading! i can't tell you how encouraging every little bit of feedback is, and i appreciate it so so so much. 
> 
> on that note, i'm going to stop talking like this is the last thing i'll ever write and leave you be while i try to finish one of my twelve uncompleted fics.


End file.
